


Amirite?

by orphan_account



Series: Getting to Oh, God, Yes [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Bottoming, Community: ds_kinkmeme, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Misogyny, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by this prompt from The due South Kink Meme:</p><p>"due South, Kowalski/Vecchio</p><p>Vecchio is a total bottom, but he hates hates HATES that about himself and won't admit to it. Kowalski makes him face that part of himself and pushes him to take steps toward accepting it. Rough sex, dubcon, alpha!Kowalski, um, yes please! If you wanna throw Fraser in, well, I can totally live with that!"</p><p>I wrote this in response to that, but it's only a start on filling the prompt.  There are two sequels, and Fraser didn't end up being a part of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amirite?

Stella would ride roughshod over him, in Florida. She’d wrinkle her nose at him at the Publix and they’d end up with eggplant, which he hated, and no portabellas, which he loved, and he’d just shrug to himself with a mental “Women…amirite?” and assuage his masculinity that way. And if, in bed, she’d be more concerned about her pleasure than his, and if he actually got off on serving her, if pleasing her pleased him more than being pleased himself, well…that’s what a guy had to do to keep the peace. Amirite?

  
But ultimately, eating eggplant and suppressing his desires in favor of Stella’s did not make for relationship success. So Vecchio ended up back in Chicago, where he had to see stupid Kowalski’s stupid face every day. Stupid Kowalski who managed to stick it out with Stella for about 12.5 times the length of time Ray was able to make it work. Stupid Kowalski who just waved his hand when it came to Fraser. Fraser had stayed up north, Kowalski had come back, and Kowalski was downright blasé about whatever had happened up there. If Vecchio’d ever had Fraser at his disposal, no way would he have been all “Oh, yeah, Fraser, ya know, I used to have a scene with him,” like Kowalski was.

  
Vecchio would sometimes imagine it. Fraser, so starved for touch, which Vecchio had seen, nearly lost his goddamned house over, coming up to Kowalski in some tent or igloo or whatever. Fraser would be desperate for affection, for attention, for a hand that didn’t belong to a dead guy, reaching up, reaching out, whatever. And Kowalski, whom Stella’d taught to be self-sufficient, would suffer Fraser’s attentions, would maybe put his hand in Fraser’s union suit, would obligingly yet grudgingly press against Fraser and say, “Is that what you want, what you need, is that enough?” and Fraser would come from Kowalski’s touch, from Kowalski’s contempt.

  
And sometimes, late at night, it would be Kowalski taunting Vecchio, showing Vecchio his own needs and wants, and fulfilling them with a detached boredom that said, somehow, “I’m doing this because you need it, like I’d give you water in the desert.” And that image, that thought, would send Vecchio into a cascade of shameful desire resulting in climax. Because…he wasn’t supposed to get off on men, on men who treated him shamefully. If he found pleasure in trying to please people who were inherently unpleasable, well, they were supposed to be capricious women, and that was part of life, amirite?

  
But circumstances intervened, and Vecchio found himself with Kowalski, working with him, sitting out a stakeout with him. Small talk ran short since they had too much in common, and finally Kowalski said, and did that man not have any kind of filter, internal censor, whatever, “So, how long has it been?”

  
And Vecchio, goddamnit, he could not fathom why he didn’t tell Kowalski to get bent, to mind his own beeswax, to fuck off, said, “Since Stella.”

And Kowalski snorted and said, “Yeah, got that.”

  
Vecchio could not suppress his curiosity. “You, too?” he asked. He would’ve liked if it had been a demand rather than a question, but it was definitely a question.

  
“Since Stella? Sure, a few times,” Kowalski said with easy openness. “But nothing meaningful.”

  
And for some reason, Kowalski looked at Vecchio when he said “meaningful,” and Vecchio felt his mouth go dry. “Fraser,” he squeaked, and damnit, it was not supposed to be a squeak.

  
“Nah, Fraser’s straight,” Kowalski said, and there was probably a hint of regret there, and Vecchio maybe shared that regret a little, but kind of liked it, too, because the way Kowalski said it, that Fraser was straight, somehow implied that maybe Kowalski wasn’t. Not entirely. “Stupid straight,” Kowalski added, and Vecchio nodded, thinking of Victoria and how she’d controlled Fraser. Made him stupid with desire. But that was what some women could do to men, amirite?

  
“But if I found someone who I clicked with, who I could have a duet with, work with, be partners with,” Kowalski was continuing, “who wasn’t straight, wasn’t stupid straight, well, that would be…really fucking convenient.” Kowalski shifted in his seat and looked at Vecchio intently. And Vecchio thought about it, and thought about how it might be with Kowalski, and how he, secretly, wanted it to be with Kowalski, and he turned away. Deliberately and as forcefully as he could, given the confines of the CPD Ford Tempo they were using.

  
Because when Vecchio thought about gay sex, which he did with disturbing frequency, he got all hung up on the sheer mechanics of it. As a man who’d only been with women, he always did the penetrating. Women took him in their mouths, their cunts, and even sometimes tighter, more exotic places, but he was the one who allowed himself to be surrounded by their flesh. But if he were with another man, what would happen then? Would he find himself…impaled? Would he be on the receiving end? The compromises he’d always made to accommodate women…would he have to be the one doing the compromising? The accommodating? Would he have to keep buying eggplant just to keep the peace, amirite?

  
Over the next few weeks, Kowalski drew him out. Vecchio wasn’t even sure how it was happening, but he was tolerating, then welcoming, Kowalski’s touches, his kisses. The kisses slowly progressed from on the cheek to on the lips, to mouth parted, to Kowalski’s tongue gently pressing into Vecchio’s mouth. And Vecchio felt invaded, conquered even by Kowalski’s tenderness, especially by Kowalski’s tenderness, and it scared him. Because this wasn’t about putting the seat down, or making hot tea the third week of the month, or buying flowers because…women, amirite? This was about Kowalski getting in Vecchio’s personal space and Vecchio…liking it. And with Kowalski there was no peace to be kept, no need to assuage. Vecchio found himself wanting Kowalski to subsume him, to make him buy eggplant, to make him fucking take whatever, and it scared him.

  
One night, they were in Kowalski’s apartment, having just finished watching “Stripes,” which made them both feel oddly patriotic, with Bill Murray’s speech about how Americans with a capital A had gotten kicked out of every decent country in the world (Canada being, Vecchio assumed, the most decent country of all). Kowalski moved in, as he’d been doing with increasing frequency, manhandling Vecchio, kissing him, only this time more aggressively, practically shoving his tongue down Vecchio’s throat. Vecchio knew he should hate it, but he didn’t, and that made him hate himself. He pushed at Kowalski.

  
“No,” he said.

  
Kowalski just looked at him.

  
“No,” Vecchio repeated.

  
“I’m not the football captain and you’re not my prom date,” Kowalski said, and while it didn’t really make sense, it somehow did, and Kowalski was back on him, hands everywhere, tongue pressing against Vecchio’s lips. And Vecchio was hard, achingly hard, loving how Kowalski’s hands and tongue were trying to own him, on the verge of actually owning him, but why would Vecchio put up with that? He didn’t need to placate Kowalski. Kowalski didn’t have PMS, wasn’t being paid eighty-five cents on the dollar for equal work, didn’t need to be fucking catered to, amirite?

  
But Vecchio wanted to cater to Kowalski. He wanted Kowalski on him, and, Jesus, this was the worst: he wanted Kowalski in him. Not just his tongue, he wanted Kowalski’s cock in his mouth, in his ass, wanted to submit to Kowalski’s penetration and there was no reason, no excuse, just that he wanted it.

  
And goddamnit, but Kowalski seemed to know that, and was manipulating him, using his body against him. They were both fully clothed, but Kowalski’s tongue was fucking his mouth, and Kowalski’s finger was at the seam of his pants, in the back, right over Vecchio’s asshole, and Vecchio was moaning into Kowalski’s mouth, fucking begging for it without words, and Kowalski was hard and demanding and so fucking strong, acting like he could take anything he wanted to from Vecchio, and Vecchio would have to just give it up. Vecchio pushed him away.

  
“I don’t want this,” he enunciated clearly. And Kowalski laughed at him.

  
“You don’t want to want this,” Kowalski said, “but you do, and I’m going to give it to you.”

  
Vecchio shivered at Kowalski’s words, at the truth of them, at Kowalski’s implacability. Vecchio didn’t have to skip to the end of the book to see how this turned out. He knew it, could see it in his mind’s eye. He’d protest, Kowalski would insist, and eventually he’d be hanging off of Kowalski’s dick, probably shoving himself back and fucking begging for it, and with no excuse because if he surrendered to Kowalski like he wanted to, like he knew he would, Kowalski would own him and the only one making those stupid jokes about catering to the whims of someone who ultimately had little power would be Kowalski.

  
Vecchio closed his eyes as Kowalski worked him over, manhandled him, and imagined Kowalski, years from now, years in which Kowalski fucked Vecchio up the ass regularly to Vecchio’s shameful delight, saying something to his colleagues, something like, “Gotta get Vecchio flowers, he’s pissed at me, keeps burning dinner, gotta do something for him because…well, Vecchio, amirite?”


End file.
